The Lover

VEDUCHA

But which animal is it, a rabbit a frog an old bird? Perhaps something big a cow or a gorilla. They haven’t decided yet. A universal animal an animal of animals a sad monster lying beneath a blanket warming herself in a big bed rubbing her body on a crumpled sheet her soft tongue constantly licking the nose the pillow her eyes flitting about. Thinking animal thoughts about food and water that she will eat and drink about food and water that she has eaten and drunk whining a soft whine. They come and raise the blanket urging the animal to rise sitting her on a chair washing her skin with a sponge bringing a plate of gruel taking a spoon and feeding her.

Night. Darkness. An animal sniffing the world a sweet smell of rotting flesh. A big moon comes to the window and cries to the animal. The animal cries to the moon — ho … ho … oy … trying to remember something that she does not know that she only thinks she knows scratching at the wall tasting the peeling plaster. They come to silence the animal stroking her head quietly comforting her — sh … sh … sh … the animal grows quiet. Wants to weep and does not know how.

Strong light around and voices. Sun. The cattle shed the stable the hen coop rustle. The face of a creature before her a creature not an animal, a creature talking to the animal. She wants what does she want? She wants how does she want? Why? A creature that once was. A little pain waking within. Deep down inside the animal something stirs such a soft wind a breath without air without movement bride to the creature her soul her soul. She is here she has not vanished. She always was. The man talks. From a familiar distance. But what is he saying his speech is dark. Gives up and leaves. The animal begins to understand with surprise that she is also human.

ADAM

In fact it was I who found him, who brought him home to Asya. People put themselves in my hands sometimes, I’ve noticed, they throw themselves at me as if saying — “Take me,” and sometimes I take them –

At the beginning of last summer, in the quiet months before the war, I detached myself more and more from the general work of the garage, arriving in the morning, seeing everything working at a high pitch and after two or three hours getting into my car and driving around the shops looking for spare parts, driving to Tel Aviv, touring the automobile agencies, looking through catalogues, visiting other garages to pick up new ideas, driving back to Haifa by side roads leading up to the Carmel range, walking in the woods to pass the time, arriving at the garage before the end of working hours, chasing back into the workshops the men who thought they’d get away early, telling one of the boys to unpack the equipment that I’d bought, hearing reports from the foreman, glancing at an engine or two, deciding the fate of a car smashed up in a road accident and going into the office to sit with Erlich over the accounts, to sign cheques, to receive the keys of the safe and to hear the last of his explanations before he goes.

I used to enjoy counting on my fingers the bank notes accumulated during the day, but over the last year this has all changed into a pen and paper business, all calculations, studying bank balances, making decisions about shares, estimating future profits, a quiet assessment of the financial assets accruing to me, and all this while around me there’s silence, the garage empty, the work benches clean, the floor swept, the winches released, the generators switched off. My considerable kingdom into which the old night watchman now comes with his funny little lame dog, his big bundle jingling, locking the side entrances and leaving just the main gate open for me. He takes a kettle and fills it with water to make coffee, all the time staring intently towards the office, to catch my eye before bowing to me humbly, and then through the main gate a little car enters slowly, a very old Morris painted bright blue, rolling slowly into the garage without a driver, without a sound, like something out of a nightmare.

I straightened up in my seat.

And then I saw him for the first time, still through the window of the office, wearing a white shirt and sunglasses, a beret on his head, walking behind the car and pushing it like a baby carriage. The watchman in the corner by the tap hadn’t noticed him, but the dog started barking hoarsely, ran slowly towards the man and attacked him. The man stepped back from the car, which rolled on a few more metres and then stopped. The watchman dropped the kettle and ran after his dog shouting, “The garage is closed, get that car out of here.”

I looked at the car with great interest. A very old model, dating from the early fifties, perhaps even earlier. It was many years since I’d seen this little rectangular box, with the windows like lattices, on the roads. It seems they still exist, I thought to myself, but I didn’t go out of the office.

Meanwhile the dog had fallen silent. He’d found the strange old running board on the side of the car and was amusing himself jumping on and off it, but the watchman went on shouting at the man, who made no attempt to argue. He’d gone around to the front of the car and was trying to push it back, but he couldn’t do it, the car had settled into a dip in the garage floor.

The watchman went on shouting, acting as if he owned the place. I went out into the garage. The dog wagged his tail, the watchman turned to me and started to explain.

“What’s the trouble?” I asked the man. He began to explain — “Nothing serious, the engine won’t start, there’s a screw missing,” and he went and opened the hood.

He looked rather pale, as if he hadn’t been out in the sun for a long time, there was also something odd about his way of speaking, about his style, his manners were a little strange. For a moment I thought he was religious, a yeshiva student, but his head was already uncovered, the beret crumpled in his hand.

The little car fascinated me, it had been kept in good condition, it seemed incredible but it was possible that this was the original paintwork, the chassis was clean, without rust, there were spokes in the old-fashioned wheels, the windshield wipers shone. Drops of water fell from it. My hands instantly began to stroke it.

“What’s missing?”

“Just one screw … I think.”

“One screw?” I’m always scornful of such assurance. “Which screw?”

He doesn’t know what it’s called … it should be here … in this part … and he bent over the engine to find the place … there was always one screw that used to fall out here …

I looked at the engine, in contrast to the bodywork it was in a hideous state, all dry and dusty and parts of it were even gummed up with spiders’ webs.

“Look, I don’t understand, when did you last drive this car?”

“About twelve years ago.”

“What? And hasn’t it been touched since then?”

He smiled, a gentle, pleasant smile, no, it’s been used, he thinks it’s been used, perhaps not a lot … but not by him, because he hasn’t been here, in Israel that is … he only came back a few days ago … it had been left in storage at a garage not far away, he pushed it from there after cleaning it up a bit …

“Then why didn’t you look for the screw there?”

They didn’t want to have anything to do with the car … they don’t know … they don’t have spare parts … they sent him here … they told him this was a big garage with a stock of spare parts …

“For a 1950 Morris?”

“1947 … I think …” he corrected me cautiously.

“1947? Even better … do you think I run a museum here?”

He was embarrassed at first, then he laughed, taking off his sunglasses for a moment to see me better. He had bright eyes and a pleasant face, his body was thin with a bit of a stoop, and he had a slight accent that I couldn’t place.

“So there’s no chance of finding just one little screw so the engine will start?”

Either he’s a simpleton or he’s mocking me.

“It’s got nothing to do with a screw.” I began to feel irritable. “This engine, can’t you see, it’s ruined and rusted. Do you want to sell it?”

“Do you want to buy it?”

“Me?” I was astonished by his frankness. “What would I want with it. Twenty-five years ago I used to have a car exactly like it, it really wasn’t at all bad, but I don’t feel any great nostalgia for it. You might find some nut, some antique collector, who’d give you something for it …”

Right from the start I noticed that I was talking to him in the manner I usually reserve for customers, with him it was as if I was trying to establish a bond, and refusing to desist. Something about that old blue box fascinated me, as if I was looking at something from a distant dream.

“Anyway I can’t sell it now … it isn’t mine yet.”

“Well then, do you want me to restore it?”

As if I was short of work in the garage –

He thought for a moment, hesitated. “O.K., but …”

But I cut him short, afraid he might change his mind, and at that very moment an idea occurred to me, I thought of starting a new line in restoring old cars, in the general climate of affluence there’d surely be nuts interested in a new hobby.

“Come back in three days and collect it, it’ll be fit to drive again. Leave the keys inside and push it into a corner so it won’t be in the way. Help him,” I ordered the surprised watchman and went back to the office, wondering for a moment if I should say something about the cost of repairs, but I decided against it in case he would change his mind.

I sat down at the table, going over the last accounts, through the window I saw him and the watchman pushing the car into a corner. He paced around the car for a while, deep in thought, looked towards the office and disappeared.

Five minutes later I finished my work, stuffed a few thousand pounds in my wallet, locked away the rest in the safe and prepared to drive home. Before getting into my car I went again to the Morris, opened the hood and looked inside. Again I was astonished to see the tangle of spiders’ webs entwined around the engine. I took off the oilfiller cap and a big black spider crawled out of the dry rusty sump. Just one screw missing … I grinned to myself, squashing the spider with my fist. I closed the hood, got inside the car. I sat down at the wheel, which was completely loose, playing with it like a child, studying the primitive dashboard. The interior of the car was very clean, the seats were covered with hand-sewn flowered upholstery, on the back seat lay an old travelling hat with a long scarf attached to it, an old-fashioned lady’s hat. I looked in the mirror and saw the old watchman standing behind the car, watching me curiously.

I got out hurriedly, smiled at him, climbed into my own car, started the engine and left the garage, a hundred metres farther on I saw him standing at a bus stop, he couldn’t have known that the last bus had gone. This entire commercial district was deserted at that hour. I stopped. He didn’t recognize me at first. “You’ll have to wait till tomorrow for a bus.” He didn’t understand, turning his head with the winter cap towards me.

“Come on, get in, I’m driving to the city.”

He took off his cap and sat down beside me, thanked me politely, asked permission to pull down the sun shade.

“This awful sun, how can you stand it? I’d forgotten what it was like …”

“How long have you been abroad?”

“Twelve years, perhaps more, I’ve already lost count.”

“Where have you been?”

“In Paris.”

“And you suddenly decided to return?”

“No … why should I? I haven’t returned … I only came to pick up an inheritance from my grandmother.”

“The Morris … is that what you inherit?”

He blushed, embarrassed.

“No, I wouldn’t have come back for that load of junk, but there’s a house as well … an apartment actually … an apartment in an old Arab house in the lower city … and a few other things … old furniture …”

He spoke sincerely, with a pleasing candour, without apologies, without guilt for having left the country, without excuses, admitting that he’d come to collect a legacy and leave.

“You’ll be surprised, but that Morris isn’t a heap of junk at all … it’s basically quite sound …”

Yes, yes, he knows … he and his grandmother used to drive around in it in the fifties, they got a lot of good use out of it.

We drove slowly, joining a long line of traffic at the approaches to the city. He sat there beside me, with his big sunglasses, busily adjusting the shade, as if the sunlight might sting him. I couldn’t make him out, his Hebrew was good, admittedly, but he used all kinds of old-fashioned expressions. I carried on with the idle conversation.

“And your … your grandmother … she used to drive the Morris all the time … who used to look after the car for her?”

He didn’t know, to tell the truth he hadn’t been particularly close to her … he’d been ill … out of touch … for a few years he’d been in an institution in Paris.

“An institution?”

“For the mentally ill … that was several years ago … but now everything’s all right …”

He hastened to reassure me, looking at me with a smile. Suddenly it all became clear to me, the way he came into the garage, pushing the car, his search for one screw, the oddity of his speech, his hasty confessions. A lunatic who suddenly remembered an ancient legacy.

“When did she die, this old lady … your grandmother?”

An idle conversation in the heavy, slow, burning traffic.

“But she isn’t dead …”

“What?” He started to explain to me the “mishap” that had befallen him, with that same reckless sincerity. Two weeks ago he heard that his grandmother had died, he made arrangements, scraped together the money for the ticket and arrived here a few days ago to collect the inheritance, as he was the sole heir, her only grandson. But it turned out that the old lady was still dying, she’d lost consciousness and was in the hospital, but she was still alive … and in the meantime he was stuck here, waiting for her to die … that was why he’d tried to move the car, otherwise it wouldn’t have occurred to him to have anything to do with it … he knew as well as I did what it was worth … but if he had to wait a few more days perhaps he’d tour the country a little … see the new territories … Jerusalem … before going back to France …

Cynicism or just eccentricity, I wondered. But for some reason there was something charming, open, agreeable in his manner of speech. Meanwhile we were entering the centre of the town, going up towards Carmel, he still didn’t ask to be put down. As we climbed the hill, with the sun beating down on the windshield, dazzling me too, he really seemed to shrink, curling up in his seat as if he were being shot at.

“This Israeli sun … it’s impossible …” he complained. “How can you stand it?”

“We get used to it,” I replied solemnly. “Now you’ll have to do the same …”

“Not for long.” He hoped with a smile.

Conversations about the sun –

I was approaching central Carmel. He still showed no sign of wanting to get out.

“Where do you want to go?”

“To Haifa … I mean to the lower city.”

“You should’ve got out long ago.”

He didn’t know where we were.

I stopped at a corner, he thanked me, put on his cap, looked around him, not recognizing the place. “Everything here has changed,” he said very mildly.

Next morning I asked Hamid to dismantle the engine to see what could be done with it. It took him five hours just to shift the rusty screws, and they were ruined by the time he’d managed to free them.

“Is it really worth it, working on this heap of junk?” From the start Erlich had taken a violent dislike to the little car, which perhaps reminded him of the days of his unsuccessful partnership in the garage. To make matters worse he couldn’t even make out a work sheet because I’d forgotten to take the owner’s name and address and there were no documents in the car.

“Why should you care?” I said, but I knew he was right, was it really worth the effort of removing the engine, dismantling it to its smallest components, looking through old catalogues to find replacements for the rusted parts, testing the pressure of the pistons, drilling, cutting out new parts, welding, and all the while improvising with odd spares. Only an old lady could have put a vehicle into such a state. If instead of sewing covers for the seats she had once changed the oil …

We worked on that car for three full days, building it up from scratch, Hamid and I. Because for all his abilities, Hamid couldn’t manage the work on his own, he didn’t have enough imagination. Sometimes I used to find him standing motionless for half an hour with two little screws in his hand, trying to figure out where they belonged. Erlich paced around beside us like a restless dog, noting down the hours that we worked and the spare parts that we used, afraid that the owner of the car wouldn’t come back at all. “The repair will cost more than the car’s worth,” he grumbled, but it may be that deep down that’s what I intended. I wanted to get control of it.

On the third day we reassembled the engine and it worked. We discovered that the brakes were in a hopeless state and Hamid had to dismantle them too. At noon he appeared. I saw his funny hat bobbing about in the crowd, among the moving cars and the whispering workers. I hid from him. He stood beside the car, unable to imagine the amount of work that had been put into it. Erlich pounced on him, wrote down his name and address, but as was his way made no mention of the bill. He was told to come back when the job was finished, the car had yet to be tested on the road, there were final adjustments to be made.

A few hours later he returned. I myself took him for a test drive, listening to the engine, which throbbed delicately but steadily, testing the brakes, the gears, explaining to him all the time the meaning of the various noises. He sat beside me, silent, with a strange weakness that was somehow endearing, worried about something, pale, unshaven, occasionally closing his eyes, without appreciating the miraculous resurrection of the ancient car. For a moment it occurred to me that he might already be in mourning.

“Well then, has your grandmother passed away?” I said softly.

He turned to me hurriedly.

“No, not yet, there’s no change in her condition … she’s still unconscious.”

“If she recovers she’ll enjoy riding in the car with you again …”

He looked at me in terror.

We returned to the garage, I gave him the keys and went out to talk to one of the mechanics. Erlich had been lying in wait for us and he came out at once with the bill, demanding payment immediately and in cash. The man looked dubious to him, not to be trusted with a bill sent through the mail. The cost of the repair amounted to four thousand pounds. A bit steep, but still reasonable in view of the amount of work put in. Erlich had decided to impose an especially high rate on work in which I was personally involved.

The man took the bill, glanced at it, he couldn’t understand the writing, Erlich explained it to him and he shook his head. Then Erlich left him. I stood to one side, deep in conversation but watching him with a sideways glance, watching him go to the car, starting to pace around it, glancing at the bill, his face growing dark, looking around for me, seeing me deep in conversation and drawing back. Erlich returned, he retreated, muttering something, came to me. I finished my conversation and turned towards the office, he began to walk beside me, his face very pale, I noticed white hairs at his temples, although he couldn’t have been more than thirty years old. At the door of the office he began to speak, he didn’t understand, he was sorry, but he didn’t have the money to pay now, he was sure that a lot of work had been put into it, he didn’t deny it, but such a price …

I stood watching him, listening in silence, cheerfully, smiling to myself, I knew just how it would be, that I was involving him in a repair job beyond his means. I was calm. But Erlich, who came and stood beside me and also listened, was furious.

“Then why did you leave it here to be repaired?”

“I thought it was something trivial … a screw…”

That screw again –

He was very pale, confused, but nevertheless retaining something of his civilized manners, taking care in phrasing his answers.

“Then kindly borrow some money,” Erlich interrupted him.

“But from whom?”

“From relations, your family, anyone. Haven’t you any relations?”

Perhaps, but he didn’t know anything about them … he had no contact with them …

“Friends …” I suggested.

He had none … he’d been away for more than ten years … but he was prepared to sign a promissory note … he’d sign … and as soon as …

I was inclined to leave him alone, but Erlich was getting more and more angry.

“Of course, we can’t let you take the car. Give me the keys, please.”

And he almost snatched them away from him, went into the office and put them down on the table. My first thought was, the car is staying with me.

We both went into the office.

“If you don’t pay within a month we shall have to sell it,” Erlich announced triumphantly.

“We can’t, Erlich,” I explained quietly. “The car doesn’t belong to him.”

“Doesn’t belong to him? What is this?”

The man began to tell his story again, the grandmother whose death he was awaiting …

To Erlich the whole business was a scandal, all this talk about an old woman dying. He stood there stiffly by the table, with his short khaki trousers and his army-style close-cropped hair, staring at him with disgust.

“How is she now?” I asked, taking an interest, retaining my composure. Suddenly I too depended on his grandmother’s death.

“She’s unconscious … no change … I don’t understand … the doctors can’t say how long it will go on like this …” He was desperately unhappy.

“But where the hell do you work?” yelled Erlich, losing his temper. “Don’t you work?”

“What for …?” The man was very pale, trembling, his hands shaking, Erlich had terrified him, and suddenly, I could hardly believe my eyes, he collapsed at our feet on the floor.

“He’s only acting,” hissed Erlich.

But at once I felt concerned for him and picked him up in my arms, a light warm body, sat him down on a chair, cleared space around him, opened his shirt buttons. He recovered immediately.

“It’s only hunger.” He covered his eyes. “I’ve eaten nothing for two days … I’ve got no money left … yes, I’m in a mess, I know.”

DAFI

Supper isn’t really over yet. Daddy’s drinking his coffee, Mommy’s already washing the dishes, in a hurry to get back to the study, and I’m standing in front of the big mirror with a little mirror in my hand examining my back and behind my legs, carefully touching the sunburned places, tasting the taste of salt. A week ago the long vacation began and because the Girl Scout camp was cancelled Tali and Osnat and I began going down to the beach every day, sitting there till evening, we want to be really black when school starts again, and suddenly Daddy says:

“I must phone Shwartzy …”

“What’s happened?”

“To ask him if he wants a French teacher at the school.”

“What on earth?”

And he starts to tell a strange story, to which I listen with half an ear, about a customer who fainted in the garage because he couldn’t pay a repair bill, someone who arrived in the country without a cent, a crank, an immigrant who’d lived many years in Paris and came here to pick up an inheritance and found that there wasn’t any …

“And you want them to give him a job as a teacher in our school,” I interrupt. “Aren’t there enough idiots there already?”

“That’s enough, Dafi!”

It’s very unusual for Daddy to tell stories about what goes on in the garage, sometimes you forget there are people there as well as cars.

But Mommy thinks it’s a strange idea too, asking Shwartzy to give a teacher’s job to some guy who left the country.

“All right then, not a real teacher … a temporary appointment … an assistant teacher … he needs help … he hasn’t got a job … he fainted of hunger in the garage.”

“Hunger? Is there still anyone who’s hungry in this country?”

“You’d be surprised, Dafi. What do you know about this country?” says Mommy coming out of the kitchen, her hands wet, taking off her apron.

“How much does he owe you?”

“More than four thousand pounds.”

“Four thousand?” We’re both astonished. “What did you do for him that cost four thousand pounds?”

He smiles, surprised at our excitement, he does repairs that cost much more than that.

“So what will you do?”

“What can I do? Erlich has confiscated the car, but that doesn’t help because the car isn’t his anyway … it can’t even be sold …”

“So what will you do?”

“I shall have to cancel the debt …”

Oh, I see, Daddy’s a public charity –

“A debt of four thousand pounds?” I feel really bitter. Just think what I could do with four thousand pounds.

“It’s none of your business, Dafi,” says Mommy.

But she too looks baffled, standing there in the doorway of the study, wondering how Daddy can throw away so much money so easily.

“Perhaps you could find him work in the garage …”

“What could he do there? It isn’t his kind of work … well, it doesn’t matter …” And Daddy turns to go.

“Bring him here,” I say.

“Here?”

“Yes, why not? He can wash the dishes and scrub the floor and that way he can gradually pay off the debt.”

Daddy bursts out laughing, “It’s an idea.”

“Why not? He can do the ironing, the laundry, tidy the rooms for us” — I’m getting carried away, as usual — “he can take out the rubbish …”

“That’s enough, Dafi,” says Mommy, but she’s smiling too. A strange family conference this, I in front of the mirror, half naked, Mommy with her hands wet at the study door, Daddy in the kitchen door with a coffee cup in his hand.

“When a man’s suddenly down on his luck” — Daddy tries to explain — “you feel sorry for him, and he really is a nice fellow, pleasant, educated, he even studied for a while at the university in Paris … perhaps you need somebody to copy, to translate for you … I know …”

“What on earth for?”

“I just thought … oh, it doesn’t matter.”

“But I could use a secretary” — I’m all excited again, trying to make them laugh — “someone to copy, to translate … to do my homework for me … I shall find work for him.”

Mommy laughed, at last, and perhaps this laughter meant that the idea didn’t seem so odd to her, or perhaps she really was upset over the loss of the money, because next day when I came back from the beach in the evening, suntanned and stained with oil and my hair in a mess, I found someone sitting in the living room with Mommy and Daddy. Maybe this was the first time they ever succeeded in surprising me. At first I thought he was just a guest, I didn’t realize he was the man they’d been talking about, they too were a bit confused and embarrassed, sitting there in the dark room, in the twilight, staring at the thin, pale man with the big bright eyes. He looked as if he’d once suffered from a severe illness, no wonder he fainted in the garage when he heard the price. He blushed when he saw me come in, jumped up from his seat and held out his hand. “Gabriel Arditi,” he said and shook hands with me. Why on earth did he want to shake hands with me, what kind of manners are these? Right from the start I didn’t like him, so I didn’t tell him my name, I fled to my room and undressed, hearing Mommy ask him about his studies, Daddy murmuring something and he talking about himself in a low voice, talking about Paris.

I went to have a shower, washed off the oil stains. When I came out he wasn’t in the living room, Mommy had disappeared too, only Daddy was still there, deep in thought.

“Is he still here?”

Daddy nods, pointing to the study door.

“When are we going to eat?”

He doesn’t answer.

I go back to my room, put on a blouse and shorts, return to the living room, find Daddy still sitting there motionless, as if he’s been turned to stone.

“What’s going on?”

“What do you want?”

“Has he gone?”

“Not yet.”

“What’s happening?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you really mean to employ him here?”

“Perhaps.”

I go into the kitchen, everything’s tidy and clean, no sign of supper. I take a slice of bread, go back to him, pick up the paper and glance through it, go to the study door and listen, but Daddy looks up and angrily signals to me to move away.

“What’s she doing in there? How long’s he going to stay?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“I’m starving.”

“Then eat.”

“No, I’ll wait.”

It’s a bit strange to see him sitting there in the dark, without a paper, without anything, his back to the sea.

“Shall I put the light on for you?”

“There’s no need.”

I eat another slice of bread, which only increases my appetite. At the beach we hardly had anything to eat. It’s eight o’clock now, I’m frantic with hunger.

“But what’s happening?”

“Why are you making such a fuss? If you want to eat, eat,” he snaps. “Who’s stopping you … anyone would think Mommy still had to feed you …”

“You know I don’t like eating alone … come and sit with me.”

He looks at me angrily, groans, gets up from his seat, scowling, comes into the kitchen and sits down beside me, helping me to slice the bread, bringing out cheese and olives and salad and eggs and after a while he too begins to nibble, digging around in the dishes with a fork. The study door is still closed, she’s gone quite crazy, taken my idea seriously, made him her slave.

Suddenly the door opens, Mommy comes out to us, her face tense, she’s very alert.

“Well?” I say, jumping up.

“O.K.” She smiles at Daddy. “He can help me with translating at least … he’s translating something already …”

“Now?”

“He’s got time to spare … why not?”

“Come and eat with us,” I suggest.

“I can’t leave him on his own, I’ll make sandwiches and coffee, you carry on without me.”

Hurriedly she prepares sandwiches, makes coffee, puts some olives in a dish, lays it all out on a big tray and disappears again into the study. We finish our supper, Daddy insists that I clear the table and wash the dishes and then he goes and sits down in front of the TV.

Nine o’clock. Ten. They still don’t come out, now and then I hear their voices. Daddy goes to his room, but I can’t relax, I don’t know why, this strange and sudden invasion has upset my balance, made me nervous. I undress slowly, put on my pyjamas, feeling the pain of my sunburned limbs. I sit in the living room and watch the closed door. At a quarter to eleven he leaves the house, I leap up and rush into the study. Mommy sits there in a chair, the room’s full of cigarette smoke, she’s flushed, papers and books scattered about her in a chaos that reminds me of my own room, a light smell of sweat in the air, in her hands a bundle of papers covered with a strange, rather ornate handwriting.

ADAM

Erlich of course wasn’t impressed, wasn’t mollified, a hard-boiled yeke, standing erect at my side, his turnip head tilted back, glaring at the pale man with the stumbling speech. To him, all this fainting was just an act, an attempt to escape payment.

“That’s all, Erlich,” I said pleasantly. “It’s O.K … you can go home now … I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Erlich was taken aback, blushed a bright red, mortally offended, never had he heard such an explicit order from me. He snatched up his old briefcase, tucked it under his arm and stormed out of the office, slamming the door.

By this time the garage was empty. I’m always struck by the sudden silence that falls within a few minutes of the workers leaving. The old watchman came in through the gate, Erlich stumbled against him, the dog barked at Erlich, Erlich kicked the dog and walked out.

I knew I’d offended Erlich, but I wanted to be left alone here with the pale young man who sat there with his head in his hands. Did I already know what my intention was? Is it possible? I knew very little about him, but enough to feel that unconsciously I’d cast a net and a man was caught in it, and was writhing in my hand. The sense of warmth that I’d felt when I helped him up from the floor, it certainly wasn’t regret at having involved him in such an expensive repair job, because I was already prepared to cancel the debt, but …

I smiled at him, he looked at me gloomily, but then a light flicker of a smile appeared on his face. My slow, relaxed, assured movements can instil calm all around me, this I know. I bent down and picked up the bill, which still lay on the floor. I read it through, folded it and put it in my shirt pocket. I left the office, called the watchman and sent him to buy coffee and cake from a nearby café, I switched on the electric kettle and made coffee for him and for myself.

Again, the story about his grandmother, which sounded to me more and more like a hallucination. A very old woman who had brought him up after his mother died. A few months ago she fell into a coma and was taken to a hospital, but only two weeks ago he received a letter in Paris, a neighbour found his name and address and wrote to him, telling him that she was dying. He wasn’t sure whether to come, but since he knew he was the only heir he decided to come and claim whatever there was. There wasn’t much, he had no illusions, but there was after all an apartment in an old Arab house, this car, a few bits and pieces, perhaps some jewellery that he didn’t know about. What did he have to lose? He spent most of his money on the plane ticket … he didn’t intend to stay here long … he thought he’d just sign some papers, take the money and go … but in the meantime … from an official point of view there was nothing he could do … the small amount of money that he’d brought with him was running out fast … it seemed prices had risen a lot … and his grandmother wasn’t yet … almost … today he was at the hospital again … she was like a vegetable … worse than that … a stone … but, alive …

What did he do in Paris?

All kinds of work … in recent years he even taught Hebrew … private lessons … the Jewish Agency even sent him three priests who wanted to learn Hebrew, enthusiastic and reliable pupils … and friendly, not like the Jewish businessmen … aside from this he taught French to foreigners, to other Israeli immigrants, Arabs, Africans, students especially, helping them to write their papers … recently the agency had sent him some Zionist publicity to translate … he hadn’t been short of work and his needs had been few.

Had he studied there?

Yes … no … a little … years ago he attended lectures on history and philosophy but because of his illness he’d been forced to give them up … he used to feel faint in crowded rooms … not enough air … but this last year he’d started going to lectures again … not for a degree … for pleasure … now if he was going to have money he’d be able to spend more time studying …

Meanwhile he finished off the sandwiches, eating delicately, picking up the crumbs around him. A hungry man in Israel in 1973.

“Do you intend to work now?”

If there’s no alternative … if he has to wait much longer for his grandmother to die … but not work in the sun … he’ll go to the Jewish Agency … perhaps I know somebody there …

Such an alien passivity amid the chaos of life all around, but no particular worries either.

The watchman came in, took away the empty cups, the man put his hand to the keys lying on the table and played with them.

“Excuse me, I don’t know your name.”

“Gabriel Arditi.”

“You won’t be able to take the car.”

“Not even for a few days?”

“I’m sorry.”

He put the keys back on the table, I took them and hid them away in my pocket. “Don’t worry,” I said, “we’ll take care of it here, nobody will touch it, until you’re able to pay the bill …”

He was disappointed but he bowed his head with a captivating gesture, thanked me for the meal, put on his cap and left. A few seconds later he came back, asked me to lend him five pounds. I gave him ten.

He left the garage, the dog no longer barked at him but followed him for a few paces. I hurriedly finished my work with the bills, went out of the office and climbed into the Morris, which stood there in the middle of the floor. I was going to move it into a corner but I changed my mind and decided to take it home with me, to see how it climbed the steep slope of the hill. It went up slowly but surely, the engine throbbing steadily. Everyone overtaking me turned to look, some with astonishment, some with a smile.

At noon the next day someone touched me lightly. He stood there beside me, a pleasant smile on his face. He held out ten pounds.

“Has your grandmother passed away?” I smiled.

No, not yet, but at the airline office they’d agreed to buy back his return ticket at half price. He now had a thousand pounds. Could he take the car? I thought carefully, for a moment I considered taking the thousand pounds and cancelling the rest of the debt, letting the car go, but suddenly I didn’t want to let it go.

“No I’m sorry … you’ll have to bring the rest of the money … anyway it’s better you should keep the money for the time being … have you started looking for work yet?”

He was disappointed but he didn’t insist. He murmured something about Jerusalem … he’d go there and look for work … there were no opportunities in this town …

Somebody’s going to get control of him, I thought.

At supper I found myself thinking about him again, seeing him pace slowly about the garage, his back slightly bent, moving cautiously among the cars, avoiding the Arab workers. The faded French beret, the professional vagrant. I remembered him fainting on the garage floor, his opened shirt, his thin white chest, his history of mental illness, his fixation about a dying grandmother. He doesn’t stand a chance in Israel. He must be taken in hand. I asked Asya, I thought perhaps there might be something at the school. Of course she didn’t understand what I meant, washing the dishes, in a hurry to get back to the study, surprised at my concern over a customer, not understanding the interest I took in him. But when I told her about the lost money she stopped short at the study door, and of course Dafi interrupted every other sentence. To my surprise I realized that it really was the loss of the money that bothered them. Dafi in her usual way started being facetious, suggesting ways of employing him in the house, her imagination running wild, he could wash the dishes, scrub the floor, help her with her homework. I looked at Asya, she smiled.

Of course I didn’t decide anything. But the next day I found the phone number that Erlich had written on the bill, which was still in my pocket. I phoned him. I got him out of bed, he was half asleep and confused, I told him to come around and see me in the afternoon. He asked, “Are you going to give me back the car?” I said, “We’ll see … in the meantime I may have found you a job.”

Five minutes before he was due to arrive I told Asya, she was surprised at first, then she laughed. He arrived with that perpetual cap of his, but in a clean shirt, sat down in the living room and began to talk. She liked him, as I knew she would, slowly the conversation developed, she asked him about Paris, about his studies there. And he, a confirmed lover of the city, started talking about places that she knew only from maps or books, describing ways of life, mentioning historical events, all this in a light, colourful style of speech, sometimes getting quite carried away.

Dafi came back from the beach, came straight into the room, just as she was, her hair untidy, all stained with oil. He leaped up at once, took her hand, told her his name, he had strange, funny manners, he even bowed slightly. The girl blushed, fled from the room. I whispered to Asya, “Why don’t you see if he can help you, he’s done a lot of translating and copying work.”

She took him into the study to show him her papers.

Dafi started pacing about restlessly, standing listening at the closed door of the study. But I felt suddenly weak, I couldn’t get up from my seat, couldn’t even switch on the light. Wondering if I should have told her something about his time in an asylum in Paris, or if it was better to let her find out for herself.

DAFI

It began just with going down to the beach at the beginning of the vacation, because Osnat and Tali and I had nothing to do after the Girl Scout camp was cancelled and it grew into a full ritual. Since I was born I’ve seen the sea every day from my bedroom window, but it was only in this last vacation that I came to know it, really discovered it. The sea fascinated us, made its way into our souls and our bones, I didn’t know it could be so wonderful. At first, in the first week, we were still taking books with us, newspapers, our holiday assignments, rackets, a transistor, afraid we might be bored, but after a while we realized it was another world and we began going just as we were. At nine o’clock in the morning we’d meet at the bus station wearing only swimsuits, no hats, no blouses, barefoot, like savages, clutching only some folded money, going down to the beach, finding a place in a corner a long way from the lifeguard’s booth, collapsing on the warm sand, the sun on our backs, talking lazily, telling one another about our dreams, beginning to enter the slow rhythm of sea, sun and sky, losing our sense of time, roasting in the heat, diving into the cold water, swimming, sinking, floating, finding a little island of rock, rising and falling on the surf, coming out and lying on the water line, wallowing in the muddy sand, digging holes, then going to buy falafel or ice cream, drinking water from the big tap, moving away from the crowd, finding a quieter place, sinking into drowsiness, a kind of Nirvana, a quiet listless reverie, like corpses on the beach, to the sound of the waves, not caring that the sun’s in our eyes. Slowly waking and starting to run, a light run, a gentle long run, the whole length of the deserted beach, farther and farther from any sign of human life, stripping naked and plunging again into the sea, where it’s shallow, among the rocks, looking at one another no longer with curiosity or with embarrassment but studying the parts that the sun hasn’t reached, needing to be brown all over, on our nipples and our asses. Putting on our swimsuits again and walking slowly back, hunting for shells, bending over a yellow crab, motionless in its crevice. Sometimes one of us dives into the surf again and the others wait till she comes back, all the time our eyes fixed on the blue horizon shimmering in the heat, feeling the sands shift beneath our bare feet. When we reach the lifeguard’s hut the last of the people are packing up to go, with their baskets, chairs and children, we stand and watch the setting sun, not wanting to move, until the lifeguard comes to us, tells us to go.

Day after day it’s the same and we never tire of it, that’s the amazing thing, we’re never bored, we find less and less need to talk among ourselves, we could lie there side by side for hours, or walk together in silence. Even Osnat relaxes, begins to realize that she doesn’t always have to be making remarks about everything, she’s even a bit prettier, she takes off her glasses sometimes, tucks them away between her tits and starts wandering about dreamily, like Tali.

On the bus going home, in the evening, we’re like foreigners among the smelly people, the pale, sweaty, noisy people who take care not to touch us. We sit on the back seat, ignoring the crude looks that we get, they stare at us so hard you’d think we were still naked, turning around and looking again at the sea as it recedes.

On the steps of the house it’s already twilight. Barefoot and saturated with sun and salt, hair wet and bedraggled, I go into the dark house that’s full of the smells of cooking, the stench of people. Mommy’s in the study, in the pale electric light, papers and books scattered about her, dirty coffee cups, plates and scraps of food, the bed unmade, pillows squashed, the ashtray overflowing, the traces of that man, the assistant, the secretary, the translator, the devil knows what, all around her.

ADAM

He used to arrive in the morning and leave early in the afternoon, I didn’t meet him but I knew that he came almost every day to translate, to copy, to consult dictionaries. Asya really made him work, because he had time and he very much wanted to redeem the car that still stood there in the garage covered in dust, from time to time it had to be moved so as not to interfere with the work until finally Erlich told them to lift it and push it into the storeroom, they found room for it there between two boxes, it was that small.

“You’re in pretty deep with that car,” Erlich couldn’t resist saying. “You won’t see a single cent from that crazy bastard.”

But I just smiled. Heavy summer days, the long vacation at its height. Dafi goes down to the sea every day, she wants to get as sunburned as she possibly can, she says she wants “to be really black.” And I’m in the garage, which is working at only half capacity because of the workers going away in turn on their holidays. Erlich has gone abroad too, and I have to look after the accounts on my own, staying on to a late hour. When I arrive home in the evening I find Aysa in her room, in a new, unfamiliar kind of chaos. Books and papers on the floor, dirty coffeecups, pips and nut shells on the plates, full ashtrays. And she sits in the middle of all this, silent, milder than she used to be, thinking her thoughts. A quiet woman, detached perhaps, refusing to look me in the eyes.

“So, you’ve been working,” I say softly, a statement, not a question.

“Yes …I haven’t been outside the house.”

“How’s he doing?”

She smiles.

“He’s odd … a strange man … but easy to get on with.”

I ask no more questions, afraid of alarming her, of upsetting her confidence, of showing surprise, even when I find some strange-looking stew, reddish-brown, in a bowl in the fridge, she’s never cooked food like that before.

She blushes, stammering.

“I tried something new today … he gave me the idea for it.”

“He?”

“Gabriel.”

They’re cooking together now –

I smile amiably, not saying a word, eat some of the stew, it has a strange sweet taste, I compliment her on it, mustn’t give her a sense of guilt, crush her hope, show her a sign of the jealousy that isn’t there. Give her strength, give her time, we’re no longer young, both in our forties, and the man is strange, unstable, he may disappear at any moment, the long vacation will be over soon.

I remember a particularly hot summer, heavy on the limbs, and I’m up to my eyes in work in the half-empty garage, among the few workers, hardly managing to cope, walking around among the cars and thinking about him, how to hold on to him, maybe I should give him some sign. One day I come home early, waiting in my car at the corner of the street, watching them as they both come out of the house, climbing into her Fiat, she drives and I follow, my heart beating fast. She drives him to his house in the lower city, in the market area, he gets out, she says something to him, leaning out of the window, talking earnestly, he listens with a faint smile, glancing around him. They part. I park my car, run after him to catch him before he disappears in the crowd. I see him standing in the doorway of a vegetable shop buying tomatoes. I touch him lightly, he blushes when he recognizes me.

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Your grandmother?”

“No change … I don’t know what to think.”

So, he’s still trapped here –

“Where do you live?”

He points to a house on the corner, his grandmother’s house.

“How’s the work that I found for you?”

He smiles, taking off his sunglasses as if he wants to see me better.

“From my point of view it’s fine … perhaps I really can help her … she’s trying to do something very difficult … but …”

“The car?” I interrupt him, I don’t want to let him talk too much.

“The car …” He’s puzzled. “What about it?”

Has he forgotten it?

I study him closely, the dirty shirt, the crumpled clothes, the bag of tomatoes going soft in his hands.

“I’m sorry, I can’t let you have it yet, my partner’s a stubborn type … he isn’t prepared … but if you’re short of money I can always give you a small loan …”

And before he can reply I take a bundle of bills out of my pocket, a thousand pounds, and lay them carefully on top of his tomatoes.

He’s confused, touching the bills, wanting to count them. He asks if he ought to sign something.

“No need … you’ll be coming back to us, of course.”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“By the way, I ate some of that food that you cooked … it was excellent.”

He laughs.

“Really?”

Just be careful not to scare him –

I lay a hand on his shoulder.

“Well then, have you got used to the sun? You don’t want to run away from us …?”

“Not yet.”

I shake his hand affectionately and he quickly disappears into the crowded market.

ASYA

Wooden steps, flowery paper on the walls, the stairs up to the village dentist, a tall old woman comes out of the office, putting on an overcoat. She glows — A wonderful dentist, you won’t feel a thing.

And through the open door I see a big dentist’s chair facing me, and the dentist, with clean-shaven rosy round cheeks, a bow tie straggling over his white coat, sitting in the chair, his head leaning back on the rest, his hands folded in his lap, and the pure reddish light, the rural light, the otherworldly light, oh; such a clear light, shining on his sleepy face, full of glowing contentment at the painless treatment he has just performed.

I enter. In the corner of the room, beside the big primitive washbasin stands Gabriel, in a short white gown, dressed as an assistant, offering me a cup half full of a whitish liquid, like milk mixed with water. A soporific. Apparently this is the revolutionary innovation of this rustic office, this primitive place. They no longer give anaesthetic injections, they give you a drink to soothe the pain.

I take the cup from his hand and drink. The liquid’s tasteless but it’s heavy. Like drinking mercury. It slips down my throat and plunges into my stomach like a clear and smooth weight. A festive feeling, I’ve drunk something full of meaning. And I’ve already mounted a second chair, like the armchair in the study except that one arm is missing, to make it easier for the dentist to approach the patient. Such a pleasant silence. At the window that wonderful light. I wait for the drug to take effect, for the light paralysis within, Gabriel lays out instruments on the tray, thin wooden rulers, not threatening, not dangerous, and the dentist still doesn’t move from his seat, he really is asleep.

“It’s taking effect,” I say. I feel nothing but I know that it’s takng effect, I want it to take effect, it must take effect. And he takes a thin ruler and with a light touch opens my mouth, his face tense with concentration, sliding gently into the hollow of my mouth, as if trying to make certain where it is, to see if I really have a mouth. I’m overwhelmed by the sweetness of his light touch.

“Where does it hurt?” Indeed, where does it hurt, why did I come to this dentist’s office anyway? I must concentrate and find the pain in this delight, so I won’t disappoint him, so he won’t leave me, I must say something to him.

ADAM

And suddenly her voice in the silence, in the morning light, mumbling something, just as I’m beginning to wake up. Breaking out of a dream, she’s excited, groping about her, clutching at my shoulder, I freeze, again she says something, a short sentence, her hand is weak, caressing, and suddenly she realizes that she’s touching me, her hand drops, she’s midway between dreams and waking, her eyes open.

“What’s the time?”

“Quarter to six.”

“It’s already so light outside.” And she turns over, trying to go back to sleep, curling up.

“You were talking in your sleep,” I say quietly.

She turns over again quickly, looking up at me.

“What did I say?”

“Just nonsense … it wasn’t clear … a short sentence … what did you dream about?”

“A confused dream … Just …”

I get out of bed, go to the bathroom, wash my face, return to the bedroom. She’s awake, leaning on the pillow, smiling to herself.

“A strange dream, funny, something about a dentist …”

I say nothing, slowly removing my pyjama top, sitting down on the bed. It’s a long time since she’s told me one of her dreams.

“A strange dentist … a sort of yokel … in a wooden house. A rustic, primitive office. The chair was like the armchair in the study but without one of the arms, they took it off on purpose … I remember the afternoon light, a reddish light …”

She breaks off, smiling. Is that all? I don’t understand why she’s telling me. She wraps herself in the thin blanket, closing her eyes, asking me to pull down the blinds. She’ll try to sleep a little longer. To carry on with her dream? I put on shirt and trousers, folding my pyjamas and putting them under the pillow, polling down the blinds and darkening the room. I’m on my way out when she suddenly throws the blanket aside, there can’t be any doubt, something’s exciting her.

“What did I say? Can’t you remember?”

“Words that didn’t add up to anything … I don’t remember … you were just excited … was it a nightmare?”

“No, the opposite, it was supposed to be treatment without pain, instead of an injection they gave me a transparent liquid to drink, it was supposed to be a soporific, a tasteless drink … I can still taste it … it was the speciality of the dentist’s office, before I went in the door a woman came out, all radiant from the wonderful, painless treatment, a really strange dream …”

And she laughs. She’s hiding something, she’s excited, lately there’s been something about her that isn’t right, she can’t relax, she’s always watching me. I wait in the doorway.

“What did I say? What did you hear?”

“Just confused things, I wasn’t awake either.”

“What, for example?”

“I can’t remember. Does it matter?” She doesn’t answer, lies back slowly, as if at peace. I turn and leave the room, glance at the sleeping girl, the wet swimsuit still lying there beside the bed, passing through the study and seeing the chaos there, a Dafi sort of chaos. I go into the kitchen, switch the kettle on, slice the bread, bringing out butter, cheese and olives, starting to nibble as I stand there. The water boils, I make coffee, take the cup and the slices of bread out to the balcony, sitting on a chair wet with dew, slowly sipping the coffee and looking down at an ugly sea covered with a yellow mist. What does Dafi do there all day? From the bay comes the sound of explosions from the munitions factory, firing shells out to sea to test them. The cup of coffee in my hand, strong, bitter coffee, bringing me swiftly and firmly to wakefulness, no thoughts in my head, just waiting for the time to pass so I can go out to work. And suddenly Asya’s beside me, in an old dressing gown, pursued by her dreams, her face unwashed, unable to go on sleeping, leaning on the rail, breaking the heavy drops of dew with her finger.

“Still thinking about that dream of yours?”

She blushes. “Yes, how did you know?” She pulls out a crushed pack of cigarettes and a box of matches from the pocket of her dressing gown, lights a cigarette, inhaling the smoke deeply.

“It’s strange, I keep remembering more details, the dream’s getting clearer. There was someone there in a white coat, sort of in disguise, assisting the dentist, because the dentist was asleep. He gave me the drink and started the treatment, with wooden instruments, a narrow ruler, and it really didn’t hurt, he treated me so gently, so pleasantly … a real experience …”

“Who was it?”

“A stranger … I didn’t know him … just a young man.”

I look at my watch. She goes inside, switches on the kettle, goes to wash, the air grows wanner, the sounds of the awakening city. Looks like a heavy day of hamsin. She comes out to join me with a cup of coffee and a plate of biscuits, it’s a long time since we’ve sat together like this in the morning. She sits down in the corner of the balcony, in the worn wicker chair that they brought here especially for her father in the days of mourning, the cigarette between her fingers, her face reminding me of her old Either, who sat there in the last months before his death, a blanket on his knees, solemnly receiving the people who came to console him, to ask his forgiveness.

We sit in silence, sipping our coffee, our faces to the sea.

“Is he coming today?”

“Yes.”

“Are you making progress?”

“Slowly.”

“We shall have to start making a note of the hours he works.” I smile, but she takes me seriously.

“How much does he owe you?”

“I can’t remember, I shall have to look at the bill … soon we’ll be owing him money.”

She doesn’t answer, she stares at the ground, can she still fall in love?

“We shall have to think about it … perhaps I should give him back the car.”

“Already?” Softly it slips from her mouth.

“But if he’s really making himself useful of course we can continue … is he helping you?”

“Yes … he’s helping me … do you mind?”

This fear of me, that frightened look my way.

Pity stirs in me for the little woman gripped by desire. I smile at her, but she’s still serious.

“What else was there in your dream?”

“The dream?” She’s forgotten it already. “That’s all.”

I drink the rest of my coffee, bring my boots out to the balcony to put them on. She watches me uneasily. I stand up, comb my hair, smooth my beard, put my keys and wallet in my pocket, she gets up and follows me, accompanying me to the door like a faithful dog, not knowing what to do with herself, as if suddenly she can’t bear to be parted from me.

At the door I say, “Now I remember … you said something like, ‘… my love, my love’ …”

“What? ‘My love’?” She laughs, astonished. “I said ‘my love’? That’s impossible.”

DAFI

I just didn’t understand, I didn’t realize at first that the door was locked on the inside, because I’m the only one who locks doors in this house. I pressed the handle hard and started to turn it, trying to force the door open thinking someone was trapped in there, I don’t really know why I tried so hard. I was a bit giddy, the sudden change from the sunlight to the darkness in the house confused me. Because today I left the beach at midday and came home, suddenly I got tired of that Nirvana by the sea, and myself too. Osnat stopped coming with us last week and just Tali and I have been going down there. The last days of the vacation and there’s a change in the air, a mixture of hamsin and autumn, the sky clouding over. And I see that Tali doesn’t want to go into the water, doesn’t even want to run, just lying there in the sand, studying her brown, shapely body, which attracts more and more furtive glances from passers-by. She hardly talks, just smiles her weary, enigmatic smile. The beach is getting empty and I look across at the houses of the city, at the road and the speeding cars, feeling suddenly alone, seeing that if I go on just being with her I’ll begin to be as bored as she is. Today I jumped up and said, “I’m going, I’ve had enough of this, I’m bored.” But she didn’t want to come with me, I left her, took the bus and went home, I had to talk to someone, I went straight to the study, because Mommy’s always there, and suddenly the door was closed.

I went and fetched my own key and tried to fit it in the lock, then I saw a key in the lock on the other side.

“Mommy?” I shouted. “Mommy?”

But there was no answer, not even a whisper, and suddenly, what a fool I am, I was sure something had happened to her, she’d been murdered, I don’t know why the idea of murder suddenly came into my head, perhaps it was all the movies I’d seen in the vacation, I couldn’t think of anything less than murder, and I started to wail, thumping the door fiercely — “Mommy! Mommy!”

And suddenly I heard her voice, clear and soft, not the voice of somebody who’s just woken up.

“Yes Dafi what is it?”

“Mommy? Is that you? What’s happened?”

“Nothing, I’m working.”

“Then open the door.”

“In a moment, I’m just finishing something, don’t bother me now.”

I still suspected nothing, I was so confused, all hot from the sun. I went to the kitchen for a drink of cold water, came back to the living room, waiting, I don’t know what for. After a few minutes the door opened, and Mommy came out, closing the door behind her, she was barefoot, wearing a thin dressing gown, her hair in a bit of a mess, she came and sat down beside me, there was something odd about her but I couldn’t think what, she was all attention.

“What’s the matter?”

“I just didn’t know if you were in the house …”

“Have you been down at the beach?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you come back so early?”

“I just got tired of it, I suddenly got bored with the sea.”

“Perhaps you should go and rest for a while, the vacation will be over soon and you haven’t had any rest at all, you’ve been rushing about everywhere … Are you going to the movies again today?”

“Maybe.”

“Come on then” — and she lifted me up — “go and rest, you look really worn out.”

She was gentle, inscrutable, her eyes darting about anxiously, and I still didn’t understand, I let her lead me to my room, watched her as she tidied up the bed that was still in a mess from the night before, straightening the sheets and the pillows, helping me to unfasten the buckle of my swimsuit, stripping me naked, gently brushing the sand from my shoulders.

“Should I take a shower?”

“Take a shower later … you’ll be all right … you’re really burning.”

And I didn’t understand, hell, I didn’t understand anything, letting her put me to bed, covering me up, pulling down the blinds, making the room dark for me, her movements brisk and agile.

She smiled at me, closing the door behind her, and I lay there under the blankets, at midday, shutting my eyes, as if really trying to sleep, as if she’d hypnotized me, and suddenly I jumped out of bed, put on my clothes in a hurry, and barefoot, without a sound, I went to the study, stood by the closed door. It was quiet in there, just the faint rustle of papers. Then I heard her say in a low voice, “I’ve put her to bed” — a soft chuckle — “she doesn’t suspect anything.” I shuddered, I thought I was going to faint, and just as I was I fled, going out again into the sunlight, running to Osnat’s house, I had to talk to somebody, but there was nobody at her house, I ran to Tali’s house, perhaps she’d come back. Her mom opened the door, in her dirty stained dressing gown, a cigarette in the corner of her mouth, a big knife in her hand.

“Tali’s not at home,” she said and she was about to close the door but I clutched the handle, pleading with her.

“Can I wait for her here?”

She looked at me with surprise, but she let me come in, I went to Tali’s room to wait there, but I was in such a state of nerves, pacing about the room, stumbling against the walls, in the end I went into the kitchen. Tali’s mom was busy cooking, all the burners of the stove were alight, she was slicing onions, meat, vegetables — great confusion.

“Could I sit here for a while … just to watch …” I asked, my voice shaking.

She was surprised, but she found a little stool and put it in the corner, I sat there huddled up, watching her, a big woman, sure in her movements, banging the saucepans about angrily, impatiently, impulsively, rushing about the kitchen with a wet cigarette in her mouth, among the piles of vegetables and headless fish streaming blood, the smell and the smoke made my head spin. Tears rose to my eyes, I started to cry a bit. If she’d asked me about Mommy and Daddy I’d have told her everything, but she said nothing. Finally she went out and changed her dressing gown for a broad embroidered skirt with a little white apron, hastily she set the table, looking at me again, a huge woman, her hair combed, a strange, beautiful goy, the knife still in her hand. She touched me gently, raised my head.

“What is it, Dafi?”

My eyes full of tears, I started to tell her but there was a ring at the door and people were arriving, local tradesmen, a tailor, a grocer, I didn’t know she was having a lunch party. Conversations began in Hungarian, in Polish, there was laughter. She sat them around the table, scolding them, ran out to bring in the first course, some of them followed her into the kitchen, full of high spirits, sniffing at the saucepans, winking at me. Some of them I knew and I never realized they could be so friendly and cheerful. Tali’s mom gave me a plate of meat and potatoes, and I sat there on the stool in the corner, the plate in my lap, my eyes dry now, eating among the crowd, the stampede, the clatter of knives and forks, leaving the empty plate in the sink and slipping away, without saying a word.

In the street I met Tali, walking slowly, she passed me by without seeing me, I went on home. There was nobody there, the study was empty, they’d gone. In the afternoon I went to the movies, and then home in the evening, Mommy and Daddy were there but Mommy didn’t look at me, nor I at her, instead a conversation about technical matters, you’d think we were in the garage. I take a shower, watch TV, go to bed with a book, the letters start to go dim, I doze off, and suddenly, with a shock, as if someone’s shaking me from inside, I wake up. I go on reading, taking nothing in. Daddy’s already asleep, Mommy’s pacing around the house, she stops at my door, not looking at me. “Shall I put the light out?” I nod my head. She puts it out. I close my eyes, sure that I’ll sleep but I don’t sleep. I get up, start to roam around the house, going from room to room, drinking water. The magic of a night at the end of the summer. The dark sea far away. Two more days and it’ll be back to school and for the first time I have no desire to study, nor any desire for the vacation to go on, I have no desire for anything. I go back to bed, try to sleep, get up again, the tension’s like electricity in my veins. Nothing like this has ever happened to me. I call softly to Daddy and Mommy but they don’t wake up. I go to the bathroom, wondering if I should take another shower. I sit on the edge of the bath, exhausted, I’ve never felt so lonely in my life. Through the window I see in the distance, on the slope across the wadi, an open lighted window. For years now they’ve been building a house there, and now at last the occupants have moved in. A man sitting in a room almost bare of furniture, in a T-shirt, his hair tousled, a pipe in his mouth, typing feverishly, every now and then he stands up, paces about the room and sits down again, attacking the typewriter with deep concentration. I watch him for a long time. I somehow feel relieved by watching him. I’m not as alone as I thought.

ADAM

Everything’s upside down. The long vacation’s over, the house full of Dafi’s books and note pads, wrapping paper, new writing materials, and Dafi herself is an unhappy black woman, wandering about distracted, going from room to room, baffled by the masses of homework that she has to get through. In her room the light stays on after we’re asleep. Asya has gone back to work, and on Sunday, without consulting me, she cut off her hair, standing in front of the mirror, an ageing child looking at herself in despair. It looks like Gabriel has disappeared, but he hasn’t really, occasionally I find traces of him in the house, the beret, sunglasses, a cigarette stub in the bathroom, the imprint of his head in a cushion, a French magazine. Once I phoned home during working hours and he lifted the receiver. I didn’t say who I was, I just asked for her, he said, “She’s not at home, she’s at the school, she’ll be back soon.”

“Who is that, if I may ask …?”

“I’m just a friend of the family.”

Is he already a lover, how can I tell, it’s all a mystery, nothing is said openly, nor do I want things to be said, I know that I must make myself scarce, not show any special interest. I told them to move the Morris out of the storeroom, to clean it, to fit a new battery and fill the fuel tank. Erlich protested, “What about the bill?” “Tear it up,” I said. He didn’t tear it up. I found it in a new file, marked in red ink “Not paid, consult the tax people.”

I brought the car home, gave the keys to Asya and told her to hand it back to him, and I added a thousand pounds as payment for his work. She took the keys and the money and said nothing. The car stood outside the house for a few days and then disappeared.

Are they meeting all the while in secret? I still don’t know, the very idea rouses a sweet pain within, but those days were confused and moved quickly. The festivals were beginning, no, not exactly the festivals, just Yom Kippur. Nineteen hundred and seventy-three.

VEDUCHA

And if this is a human lying in the bed and humans passing by looking at him then why should he be silent? Let him say something he should speak and indeed he has begun to speak without pause hearing his voice a soft voice a broken voice the babbling of an old woman talking and talking perhaps she will grasp some thought. For in her is deep sorrow she has lost much perhaps she will find a little. Smiles all around but no understanding moving the pillow adjusting the blanket turning from side to side saying it’ll be all right. Soon. Sleep a little. But if she must sleep better to die and who is this walking about? Dear, familiar, important, going and coming, standing and disappearing. Where is this? Bring me this! Show me I want so much. This, this, crying from the pillow, the mouth hurts from the shrieks.

And this suddenly comes. Suddenly goes. Suddenly stands. Suddenly disappears. Staring darkly always in a hurry hands in pockets and it’s night.

He had one word to transform the world but the world is in hands in pockets pacing indifferently, forgetting everything, ready for nothing.

Stars at the window. This, she whispers a word, spits a word, throws off a blanket kicks the pillow rolls to the floor rises and falls crawls rises walks rolls, pushes a door and another door into the sky field orchard. Thorns in the feet and a chill in the head, pushing branches sinking to the ground digging to find a word that will open it all.